The Pathologist
by xXshatteredporcelainXx
Summary: A one-shot of Molly Moriarty, the woman causing Sherlock's trouble- Not the 'Jim Moriarty' everyone believes is the criminal mastermind.


**A/N: Here is a one-shot of a 'dark' Molly Hooper (Molly Moriarty in this case) based entirely off of a Tumblr post I enjoy. I hope you like it!**

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_Dear Memoir,_

_How I love my little games. Playing pretend is by far the most amusing, and I do say I am quite lucky with my little Sherlock. My little toy. I do enjoy the fragile state that Miss Hooper portrays. Shy, hard-working Molly Hooper, insignificant pawn in the magnificent world of Sherlock Holmes, with an unrequited love! I do say that I play it quite well. And what fun this is. From what I can tell, I remain unnoticed to date._

_The latest of his troubles concerning 'Jim Moriarty' were quite amusing. Moriarty obviously was not his real name. What can I say, I did need a touch of myself in the events! It is a shame, Jim. He was a good little actor. Slightly unfortunate that he was driving himself mad, he showed promise. But what can you do, nothing lasts forever. Everything must die in the end, and at his own hand seemed to be the fate that was following him. Just another set of bones to lay to rest._

_Using Jim as a gay boyfriend was a nice little touch of fun. Clueless Molly! Naturally, Sherlock caught on to the obvious detail. I cannot tell if he is simply looking out for the girl, or simply speaking his mind. He isn't the type to play the hero. Like me, I suppose, he does what he does simply to avoid the boredom and pass his time on this fickle planet of useless people._

_From what I have seen lately, Sherlock has been changing. It seems that John Watson has been bringing out the faint touch of compassion in him. I appreciate the change, even I must not know how this lifetime will progress. Speaking of John. He seems to be quite ordinary. The soldier is a common trait these days, he has already slipped into the plain of these people. Although, it is quite obvious that Sherlock cares for him, on what level I do not know just yet. Maybe I should toy with him as well, see what good that does. Of course, I may not have to, depending on when Sherlock returns. A suicide maybe? It is very well possible. While interesting, it would leave me with no one to play with other than Lestrade until Sherlock returns._

_-Molly Moriarty_

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Molly closed her keepsake and slowly stood from her chair. Her entry had been written a few hours ago, she was sitting there thinking since. She proceeded to the sink, where she splashed cold water on her face. Molly raised her head to look at her reflection in the mirror in front of her. Under her eyes was a deep purple, she was very pale. She looked sick. Her hair was a mess pulled into a disheveled ponytail. Her hands began to tremble, and her whole body followed. Shaking violently and breathing heavily. The anxiety was something she wished she could abandon, but seemed to follow her everywhere. The personality of Molly Hooper was slowly sinking in, and if it weren't for her troubling ways, there would be no Molly Moriarty left.

Suddenly, thoughts anger overwhelmed her. It was times like these where she was uncontrollable. And while her actions to follow would please her mind, it would usually end in the demise of an unsuspecting citizen. She dried her hands on the white button-down she was wearing. After applying lipstick and some bold heels, she slipped into the night, in search of her next toy.

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_Dear Memoir,_

_Red. Red is all I see. I_

Molly paused, it was difficult for her to think.

_I didn't mean for the night to end like this. It was a little gruesome, even for my taste. I could not stop. He... He had dark curls. Tall. He looked like... Him. Sherlock Holmes. But it wasn't of course, glasses, no prominent cheekbones. But it was, how should I put it, strange. It brought a different wave of relief, but now that I have returned, I feel only sadness. I do not know how to cope with this._

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Molly put her pen down. A chill was running through her spine, and she could not push it away. She walked upstairs to run a bath.

Her hands were still streaked with blood. She tried to wash it off in the hot water, to no avail. Stained red. She would have to find an excuse for the observant eyes of Sherlock tomorrow. Painting, she would say, as he knew of the pathologist's ever changing hobbies. Molly closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep. Instead of the calming numbness she had hoped for, all she saw were the horrific images of a few hours before.

Shaking the lifeless body on the sidewalk. Blood everywhere. _"DANCE, MY LITTLE SHERLOCK, DANCE!"_ she screamed. And the worst, was the laughter. Hers, that Molly was unaware of until the adrenaline wore off. A haunting, uneven laugh that portrayed the sounds of a tired woman driven mad.

Molly awoke in cold water. She must have been there for hours. Her whole body ached, her chest tense. She could hardly breathe. Her vision was blurred for a moment. When everything was clear again, she gasped at what she saw. Red water, soaked with the blood from her hair and hands. The blood of an innocent human being. She couldn't quite hear anything, she may have screamed. Or perhaps it was silent, a cry that her throat would not release.

Molly returned to her entry.

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_How do I put these thoughts into words. I am not bored, as a rambunctious child would be on a rainy day; I just cannot simply find anything to satisfy this need. I need something new, something horrific, terrible, interesting, beautiful, haunting. They seem to be the only emotions that can put me at ease with this terrible mind of mine. Sweet Sherlock, I hope you return soon. I need you to relieve me of the plague we call boredom. I believe in you, Sherlock Holmes._

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**A/N: I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! I apologize for any mistakes. Please review!**


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